


it’s only a matter of time – philip hamilton oneshot

by writeandrunoutoftime



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton: An American Musical
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Injury, Duelling, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Shooting Guns, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeandrunoutoftime/pseuds/writeandrunoutoftime
Summary: Philip Hamilton’s last hours before the fatal duel in Weehawken, New Jersey.The story is not historically accurate as it follows the event of Hamilton: an American Musical.
Kudos: 2





	it’s only a matter of time – philip hamilton oneshot

Philip sat down at his desk and picked up the quill, dipping its nib in the raven ink. He exhaled sharply, knowing that maybe it could have been the last time he was going to do that particular motion. As he raised the globe of the oil lantern, the flame threw light on almost the whole room and created creepy shadows on those walls that weren't lit up as much.  
When he was satisfied with the amount of light he needed, the young man's gaze fixed on the last drawer of the nightstand, not caring about the ink dripping down on the sheet of paper he was supposed to be writing on. But how could he write anything when he knew there were two pistols inside that drawer he was staring at? He had borrowed them from his uncle, John Barker Church, whom had remarked how those weapons were "his lucky ones", because whenever he used them in a duel, he would never be injured. Philip hoped they were going to be his lucky ones, too.

The door creaked and his mother Eliza entered the room. «Philip?» she called quietly when she saw her son looking blankly at the bedside table.

Hearing his name being called, Philip snapped back to reality, placed his quill inside the inkwell and turned around. And there she was his mother, his beautiful mother, standing in the doorway with a pale azure night gown that embraced her delicate figure. He felt his eyes stinging, threatening the tears to come out – tears that he somehow managed to hold back. «Yes, Ma?» 

«I just came to say goodnight.» she smiled and walked up to him. Eliza wrapped her arm around Philip's shoulders and gently kissed his forehead. 

The woman had noticed there was something that her son didn't want to tell her. She had also noticed the quill and paper on his desk, as well as his emotionless glare. She had hoped he would confide to her, that he would tell her what was going on, but Philip didn't do any of that: he hugged her waist and rested his head on her shoulder, trying to keep those tears back as her perfume filled his nostrils.

«Goodnight. I love you.» he whispered and kissed his mother's temple, his lips slightly trembling.

«I love you too, my dear child.» Eliza looked at him for a few seconds, hesitantly. Her son kept his mouth shut and just forced a grin. The woman understood he clearly didn't want to talk – and she respected his decision. She smiled back at him and left the room, closing the door behind her back. 

At that point, when he was left alone in the emptiness of his own room, Philip realised that dipping the nib in the ink wasn't the only thing he could have done for the last time that night, but there were actually many more heartbreaking things: kissing his mother, hugging his siblings, joking with Angie... and also talking to his father.  
Since the Reynolds Pamphlet had been published, he never spoke to him as much as he used to. Not that they used to talk a lot, even before the affair, but he took some distances from his father after that event. Well, until George Eacker decided to disparage him. He couldn't take that: he was very loyal to Alexander and, no matter what other people said, Philip had to defend him and his legacy. The young man recalled the events in order: Eacker hade made a speech on the 4th of July, a speech in which he publicly blemished Alexander Hamilton's honour. Philip had to step in; he couldn't have just stood there and watch his father being denigrated. That's when he went up to Broadway and challenged George to a duel without a second thought.

It was his hot temper that made him choose that terrible decision. He was being blinded by his father's ideals of legacy, of moral self defence that would result eventually in self destruction. Philip realised that too late; if he would have retreated from the duel, his honour would have been the one to be blemished, and he couldn't let that happen either. 

The pendulum clock struck midnight.

Warm tears escaped Philip's hazel eyes, rolled on his freckled cheeks and fell on the sheet of the paper that was in front of him. The fear was too much, it was so overwhelming that he felt like drowning in a black stormy sea, where no matter how loudly he shouted, no one could ever hear him; he was going to face death and he wasn't ready for that, not yet. He was too young, too inexperienced, too... too attached to life to let it go because of a damned bullet. He was only nineteen.  
Philip sniffled and wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, and reached for the quill, which trembled uncontrollably because his hand started to shake and there was no way to stop it. The air filled his lungs as he tried to regain the control of himself, but he simply couldn't overcome the vortex of thoughts in his brain. After a long time of deep, slow breaths, the young man finally could take some sort of weak control over his own body, and the quill stopped shaking – at least, it stopped shaking so violently.  
By the time he was done doing these things to calm down, the ink had already dried up and Philip had to dip the nib in the ink pot again. Every time he would do that gesture, the lump in his throat would get tighter and tighter, as if to threaten him that he was going to choke. He placed the quill on the sheet and finally began writing. The scraping sound of the metal on the paper filled the quiet room without pausing for one second; if he would have stopped, he wouldn't have the strength to get back to write.

"Dear Mama and Papa,  
I know that this letter won't be delivered to you until I have moved on from this Earth to join the angels and the Almighty in Heaven. Where can I begin, my beloved parents? I could start by saying that you were the light that guided me during my whole existence to help me seek the right and just morals that have always appeared to be the most important thing one should make treasure of before he could become a man. Your kindness and humble manners, Mama, were the qualities I've always looked up to. As for Papa, I've always admired your loyalty to your words and your dedication to work. I had once hoped that I could become like you two, I believed the best example of parents I could have ever wished for. The love that united you was the kind of affection I was seeking in women, as you had set the example of the purest type of love I had ever known and received. My only, heavy regret is the fact that I couldn't reach an adequate age for me to pass on, but this is the single price I have to pay in order to show that our family does not have to be object of any blemishing on our honour and pride, because we are all humans and as such we can make errors. Please, take care of my little siblings and pass on my love for them, especially to Angelica, who is particularly fond of me and will be certainly heartbroken for my death.  
I entrust my soul to God and cherish the hope that one day I will meet you again in a better world.  
Best of parents, I loved you and I always will  
Forever your son, 

P. H."

By the time Philip had finished writing that letter for his next of kins, the tears had streamed on his face and wetted both the paper where he was writing, smudging the ink on some words, and the fabric of his clothes.

The pendulum clock struck three times. 

It was already the 23rd of November, the day of the duel. Maybe he should have gotten some sleep before the affair-d-honneur that was just three hours away, but he was a bundle of nerves and was too scared to close his eyes anyways, fearing that he might have seen his death in a premonitory dream.  
He set the quill down, closed the inkwell with its own lid and waited a few minutes for the ink on the sheet to dry out.

The thought of the duel would stress him out with every second that the clock ticked. The more time passed, the more Philip would feel himself suffocating by the wave of regret that was keeping on crashing his brain with no mercy. What was going to happen to Ma and Pa if he died? And what about his little siblings? Was the sorrow going to be too much for them? If he died, what was going to be of Angie?  
Angelica and Philip had been extremely close since, well, since a lifetime. They always had each other's back and were the example of the best brother-sister bond that one could ever imagine. Philip took care of his little sister and Angelica looked up at her big brother.  
She would be devastated by his death. Heartbroken. Alone. 

With the horrible perspectives that his family was going to face, Philip folded the letter in three and reached for the scarlet sealing wax. He melted it with the flame of the oil lamp and let some greasy drips fall on the paper. He then grabbed the stamp and placed it on the hot wax, sealing the letter in a neat and professional way. He looked at it for some minutes -his glare completely blank once again- before standing up from the chair and walking towards his nightstand. The boy opened the last drawer and shot a glance at the two pistols, that were laying there like hound dogs resting before the moment of the slaughter. He placed the letter next to them, closed the drawer and sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers in his curly hair and holding his temples like someone was hammering inside his skull.

He didn't know how long he had been trying to recollect himself, sitting in that empty room. The clock had chimed two times more, but Philip didn't even notice. The only thing he knew, was that one moment it was dark and dull, and the moment after there was a faint light streaming in from his window. He sprang up from the mattress and rushed to grab his jacket, knowing that a carriage was coming to take him all the way to the Hudson River. He got the guns and stored them safely inside a small wooden suitcase; he also got the letter and slipped inside one of the pockets, without looking at it for a second more.

The boy climbed downstairs, walked across the house and all the way to the entrance. He looked at the staircase one last time, knowing that his family was sleeping peacefully in their rooms. «I love you. I love you all.» he muttered under his breath.

Philip grasped the doorknob and set foot outside, where the frozen air immediately embraced him. He shivered and walked through he garden and out on the road, where a carriage had just pulled up in front of the gravel pathway. After greeting the coachman, he sat down inside the passenger seat while holding the suitcase so tight that his knuckles almost started to hurt.  
The horse picked up a quick trot and, in less than expected, Philip had arrived on the banks of the Hudson, where a rowboat was awaiting him. He gulped down and jumped off the carriage to climb up the boat with his second, Stephen Price, who was already waiting for him.  
His hands had started shaking violently, just like they had done some hours before. As he sat down and the oarsman began crossing the river, the fear took over Philip and made him feel guilty and regretful about having chose the terrible decision of duelling, rather than having the words slide away.  
The Hudson was extremely placid and quiet; the water hit the boat and the oars so gently that it almost looked like the river was trying to make fun of the duellers that had to cross it. Even the weather was rather unnatural for a cold day of November: the sky was clear and there just a few golden tinted clouds that reflected the pale light of the sun that had just set.

Philip got off the boat that had been accosted very closely to the bank, and stood on the territory of New Jersey with his friend. «What time is it, Stephen?»

«Ten minutes to six.» the other boy replied after shooting a glance at his pocket watch. The latter already had a duel with Eacker the day before, but neither of them had been injured.

The oldest son of Alexander Hamilton nodded and started walking towards the duelling grounds of Weehawken, the suitcase feeling heavier and heavier with every step he took. His mind was completely empty at that point: all the thoughts he had just hours ago, had seemed to have vanished. Shortly after, Eacker and his second arrived too, accompanied by a doctor that had already been paid in advance.

«Mister Eacker, how was the rest of your show?» Philip asked, trying to sound less nervous than he actually was.

«I'd rather skip the pleasantries. Let's go.» George Eacker hastily replied.

The doctor turned around to have deniability and the challenger gave one of the pistols to his opponent. The two boys stood one in front of the other; they locked gaze for a moment and then turned around, the weapons pointed downward.

«One.»

Philip closed his eyes for a moment and took a step, inhaling deeply.

«Two.»

His mind became crowded again, his last thoughts before the moment of adrenaline.

«Three.»

The letter in Philip's pocket started to burn against the fabric. But maybe it was just the young man's imagination.

«Four.»

Another step forward. Philip felt like the air was lacking in his lungs and couldn't breathe in anymore. The lump in his throat tightened and threatened to choke him once again. He was so scared, he had never hurt or thought of hurting anyone before.

«Five.»

The weapon trembled in his hand; the boy had to adjust his grip on the pistol's handle.

«Six.» 

Philip recalled his father's advice about duels: "Fire your weapon in the air; that will put an end to the whole affair." Yes, that was what he was going to do — slowly and clearly aim the gun towards the sky. The other boy would have certainly followed suit... right?

«Seven.»

A pistol fired. Everything seemed like it was in slow motion. Price screamed just when Philip turned around to see whose gun had shot: it was Eacker's.  
The boy's eyes widened in horror and realisation just a millisecond before the bullet entered his hip, slammed through his abdomen and lodged in his left arm. He fell to the ground and fired uselessly as the consequence of an involuntary spasm of his hand. Blood coated his white shirt and his jacket, also dripping on the patch of grass he had fallen onto and soaking part of the letter he had inside his pocket. The doctor rushed to him and urged Stephen Price to help him take the wounded back to the rowboat. Philip instinctively placed his hand on the wound, that continued to spurt crimson vital fluid. Even his arm was bleeding, but not as much as the hip.  
He was carried to the boat as the fast as they could, where the oarsman started immediately to row back to New York.

Poor boy, he was embracing death so peacefully that a smile painted his lips when he looked up at the blue sky and caught a glimpse of the other side. It was so beautiful that he didn't have any words to describe it, but he knew that it only meant one thing: he wouldn't have stayed alive for long. He coughed blood and his friend helped him to sit up a bit. 

«We're going to save you, my friend!» Stephen exclaimed, even if he wasn't too convinced of his own words, too.

On the opposite side, just near the shores of the river, there was another medic, who had arrived to help his colleague carry the young man. They positioned him on a stretcher and rushed to the hospital, Stephen running along with them.

Philip shook his head slowly and smiled weakly. Some tears formed at the corner of his eyes and he didn't oppose when they tumbled down his cheeks. «There's... there's a note in my pocket that I w-want you to... have,» he was struggling to speak, but he had to finish that sentence. «When I die, even... even if I am at the hospital, give it to my p-parents.»

The hospital, luckily, was very close to the banks of the Hudson. The doctors hurried Philip him in a room and made him lay on a bed. Price reached for the letter with extreme caution and pulled it out from his friend's pocket. It wasn't in great conditions, since it had blood on a couple of corners and also other parts of the paper. «I won't have to give it to your parents, because you'll make it!»

«They are waiting for me...» he slurred. «My time left isn't much. Tell my Mama and Papa to come, please.»

His friend fled to fetch his parents and Philip had been left alone. He wasn't scared of death itself anymore, but he was still frightened that he would have to die with no one at his side, without his Ma or his Pa. He had seen the Heavens, or at least just a minimum part of it, and immediately knew he was about to go to a better place and. He also knew that his parents and his siblings would have followed too, someday, and they would have been finally reunited.

After all, he had defended his father's honour. After all, what he had written on the note for his next of kins wasn't completely wrong: a better place awaited him and he was so happy that he had deserved it.

After all, it was only a matter of time and he would see them on the other side.


End file.
